


Marching Home

by WhoopsOK



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Banned Together Bingo, Blood and Gore, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Minor Character Death, Probable PTSD, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Time Travel, Tinnitus, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, War, World War II, as shippy as you want it to be, hearing loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: Apparently, the Winchesters haven’t left the county since Kevin grabbed an unexpectedly active magical item and got zapped right out of the museum. They’ve been looking for a way to get him back, Sam damn near distraught the entire time, though they insist Kevin was only gone for two days at most.It was not just two days.(Kevin grabbed a magical artifact that threw him back in time. His homecoming is rough.)
Relationships: Kevin Tran & Dean Winchester, Kevin Tran & OC, Kevin Tran & Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Marching Home

**Author's Note:**

> BTB Fill for Realistic War – I’m not a veteran and don’t generally favor war narratives, so take ‘realistic’ with a grain of salt. Kevin is dealing with some trauma, so check those tags and take care of yourself.
> 
> …All to say, this is inspired by Umbrella Academy because Klaus’ story Hurts Me.

The Putnam County Police Station is entirely unremarkable in every way.

It’s a squat, brown building that backs up to a tiny bit of greenway along the interstate. If it had been any other day, Kevin probably wouldn’t have even seen it, his eyes passing it over in favor of the bright white library down the cross street to the right. Sam and Dean don’t usually delegate him or his baby face to speak to cops, so he wouldn’t have had reason to give more than a cursory glance.

Today, Kevin is kneeling in the middle of the road staring at it with a scream stuck in his throat.

Less than a minute ago, he’d been kneeling in shin-high mud, lost in the dark that was only broken by the explosions taking his friends away.

Less than a minute ago, it’d been eighty years ago and this building, if it even existed, should’ve been thousands of miles away.

It has been two months and sixteen days since Kevin Tran has been in Putnam on a case he can barely even remember and suddenly it feels like he doesn’t belong here on asphalt, surrounded by cellphone towers and _hybrid cars_. He’s covered in mud and soot from a war that ended well before he was born and his ears are ringing from the shell that should’ve killed them _all_ , not just—wait, _fuck,_ he’s got Hollywood’s blood under his nails and _seeping up into his sleeves and why is he, here he was going to get him out, he was—_

The scream dislodges from his throat at about the same time the cops pin him down.

Good thing those cops are just Winchesters, because he’s too inconsolable to explain anything.

Apparently, the Winchesters haven’t left the county since Kevin grabbed an unexpectedly active magical item and got zapped right out of the museum. They’ve been looking for a way to get him back, Sam damn near distraught the entire time, though they insist Kevin was only gone for two days at most.

It was not just two days.

Because the first day, Kevin had fallen into the barracks to screaming confusion and as the squadron was trying to grab everything and run. He’d barely had time to hang the artifact around his neck before someone was shouting in his face, slamming a helmet on his head. They’d thought he was trying to run, dressed like that, and he’d had his clothes replaced as soon as the ground stopped shaking.

Because Kevin cried himself to sleep for a week, trying to get the goddamn token to put him back in his own time period, before he realized it wasn’t working and he just wasn’t cut out for this, for staying alive in a warzone, he wasn’t _ready for this_. But he looked around and—he had _always_ known logistically, he had, but he looked around and saw that these faces were not really older than his. Some were even younger. Most of them desperately wanted to go home and most of them would not and all of them knew it. They weren’t ready for this, either. Knowing how to aim and shoot, Kevin could do that, too, but none of them were ready for this. The Winchesters never asked him to kill people, not even bad ones.

Because Hank “Hollywood” Bravo had grabbed him after that week of silent sobbing, when they were all laying in a ditch, trying to sleep between blasts and pulled him around to face him.

Hollywood wasn’t much older than him, couldn’t have been, but he was dirty and unflappable in a way that made him seem like he’d gotten here _years_ before Kevin. He’d been hard to see in the dark when he said quietly, “You gotta stop, pal.”

Kevin nodded like a flinch, can still in the present feel the tight grip Hollywood had on his collar, closing tight around his throat. “I know, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t fucking apologize, listen to me,” Hollywood knocked a fist against Kevin’s chest. “You keep rubbing that shit, the weird coin. S’a gift, right? You got someone to go home to?” He’d guessed, a good guess if a wrong one, but Kevin couldn’t exactly present him the truth, so he’d nodded, feeling like a panicked bobble head. “Yeah, you do, what’s her name?”

Kevin had felt the hysterical urge to laugh crawling up his throat, tightening it so it sounded passably like he wanted to cry. “Sam,” he blurted out, because there were only two names circling his head and one wouldn’t cause him trouble as much as the other. “Sammy.”

Hollywood had nodded back, had barely jumped at the explosion in the distance that had Kevin flinching down into the dirt, the butt of his rifle digging into his hip. “Sammy. Bet she’s real nice, probably pretty as fuck, too, you smart guys always get the pretty ones, but look, listen, Tran,” he’d said. “Sammy ain’t gonna want you back in a box. You gotta keep your shit together so she doesn’t get the pieces, okay?”

The thought of dying there, decades and thousands of miles from the last two people on the planet who would have even _cared_ if he lived or died made him want to vomit as much as the fucking smell around them. “Yeah, I—okay,” he’d said and it wasn’t okay, it wasn’t even remotely okay, but it was all he had.

“Atta boy. Do what I say and I’ll try to get you home,” Hollywood had said.

And that’s what Kevin did for two months.

Two months of marching and running and standing for hours and hours on blistered feet, on high alert and no sleep, on any uppers Doc pressed into his hands, standing as close to Hollywood’s shoulder as he could get. Of eating shitty food, but not realizing it because he was eating it completely numb to the world, because the sleep he was able to steal was shitty, too; left him dazed until something blew up. Or someone said some crass or racist shit and Kevin started thinking about how he was going to college in 2011, not being taunted with internment. Two months of having to shoot back at people who were not any older than him, probably didn’t want to be there just as badly, but he couldn’t think about that, because Sammy didn’t want pieces back. Two months of shutting his eyes and looking away from what the other guys got up to for fun, laughing like this was funny and not tragic, because that was easier, it was, but Kevin couldn’t do things the easy way and keep it together, he was already struggling to not just curl up at let the worms have him.

For two _fucking_ months, Kevin didn’t let himself do anything but what Hollywood said and it didn’t fucking matter because—

“ _Kevin_ ,” Sam says insistently, like he’s been saying it for a while, startling a snarled “ _What!?_ ” out of Kevin’s chest.

Because it’s been almost three months since he’s seen Sam and—

Literally last night, _last night_ hellfire was falling down around their squadron and Kevin was sure he was finally going to die and maybe that was a relief. But then Hollywood was gasping and shuddering, sputtering foamy blood out of his mouth to say, “I want to meet her. Sammy. Later,” like Kevin wasn’t screaming for Doc because he had Hollywood’s guts in his hands, “After you got kids and shit, ok? I think we could be…” And then _nothing_ , even as Kevin begged and cried, because Hollywood’s eyes were all unfocused and his mouth was hanging open and Kevin felt the loss like a shot to the chest and couldn’t understand how two months of this could be worse than demons, _how could this be worse than Hell and demons—_

Sam’s face comes back into focus, openly concerned where Dean’s is pinched. “Kevin…”

“I didn’t hear you,” Kevin snaps, and he knows it’s too loud, too sharp, but so is that _fucking ringing_ in his ears and he doesn’t feel like discussing this. It’d taken him days to calm down and he doesn’t want to go back to that, fuck them, he doesn’t want to keep talking about this.

He watches Dean squeeze Sam’s shoulder hard enough that Sam doesn’t press the issue and for some reason that pisses him off, too.

That doesn’t…really change in the months after they leave Putnam.

Kevin can feel himself peeling apart, he _knows_ he’s losing it, okay? He does. His balance is off and it’s turning his stomach no matter what he eats, he almost feels like he can’t taste it. They don’t ask his help on hunts, because he’s barely able to keep his temper in check around civilians and he puked his guts up the first time they tried to have him salt and burn something instead. They don’t ask his help so what the fuck is Kevin meant to do, but sit around and drink. Sam keeps giving him sad eyes like he wants to say something; Dean keeps letting it go which Kevin likes more right up until Dean is trying to talk to him from his bad side like he _fucking forgot_ again.

Then he fucks around and gives himself alcohol poisoning and a concussion in the same night and nobody believes he didn’t mean to do it, won’t fucking _listen_ to him. He wasn’t trying to die, he just wanted everything to slow the fuck down a little, stop being so goddamn bright and clean, because Hollywood was bleeding on his ceiling last night, mouth bubbling, even though he was smiling and saying, “ _What’s it gonna be, KT? Gruel or slop?_ ”

The hovering when they spring him from his 48-hour hold is going to get him into a fucking fight, it really is. It’s bad enough there’s suddenly, _magically_ no liquor in the bunker, but now they keep watching him like he’s going to fucking drop dead if they look away for two goddamn seconds.

Kevin doesn’t hear Dean open the door, almost swings his chair at him when he turns and finds him sitting on his bed. “What the _fuck,_ Dean!”

Dean looks largely unmoved by his shouting and near violence. “Sam thinks I’m being shitty,” he says.

“Yeah, I’ll fucking say, what do you _want?_ ” Kevin snaps, heart in his throat pushing anger out of his mouth before Dean can extend whatever he’s holding. “What is that?”

“I couldn’t find him,” Dean says instead of answering, “not how you keep calling for him, but I did find _you_.”

“What are you talking—?” Kevin demands, snatching the paper out of Dean’s hands, only for his world to tilt the wrong direction when he realizes what he’s holding.

It _is_ him.

That’s _Kevin’s_ face, from 80 years back, standing in line with Hollywood and Doc and the others when they’d trapsed through some half-ruined little town he’s not even sure he ever knew the name of. Hollywood hadn’t really been the type to smile, at least not that Kevin saw, but he doesn’t have the same washed-out, strung-out look on Kevin’s face. He looks like a man who wasn’t meant for war, but made do in it, like he maybe even cared that he was on the right side of history and had hope he would get to go home a hero, go home _alive_ and—

Kevin doesn’t realize he’s going to lose his legs until Dean is helping him sink to the ground. “How—?”

“Kevin Tran, listed as MIA right in the ass crack of WWII,” Dean answers sitting on the floor beside him, the right side this time. He nods at the picture, the man who’s keeping Kevin upright with the barest touch of his shoulder. “That Hollywood, then?”

Hearing his name out of someone else’s mouth is… It feels like breaking. Kevin can’t tell if it’s exactly a _good_ feeling, but he hadn’t realized something inside him was that brittle and stiff until it’s shattering under the weight of his friend’s name.

The noise he makes is ugly, some weirdly choked laugh-groan-sob, because yeah, he’s crying again. He’d thought he was really, _really_ done with the crying shit. He doesn’t want to be _sad_ , he doesn’t want to drown like that, angry is _so much_ easier even when it doesn’t have anywhere to go. And he is still angry. He is.

But now he’s holding proof that he isn’t completely fucking crazy and the man who spent the worst two months of Kevin’s life meaning everything to him isn’t just—lost, to bleed out forever in Kevin’s dreams. Not just a figment of magic in his memories, because he’s in this picture that Dean _found somewhere_ and Dean has asked, “That Hollywood, then?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” Kevin blubbers then has to stop looking at the picture. “ _Shit,_ that’s H.”

That’s Hank, that’s Hollywood, that’s H. That’s a real man who lived and died and still lives in Kevin’s head, the one kind of ghost he doesn’t know how to deal with.

Dean hums. “Do you want to tell me about him?”

Kevin can’t get enough breath to answer him at first. If he had enough awareness, he’d be impressed Dean hasn’t already walked out on Kevin’s emotions hemorrhaging all over the place. As it stands, Kevin just scrubs his face with one hand, carefully keeping the photo away from the flood.

“It’s ugly,” he sniffs, “It’s—I’m so fucking—”

He’s tired and angry, he feels like he’s losing his shit, _lost_ his shit on the battlefield. He’s grieving and he knows that, even if he’s never thought the word so directly and he doesn’t know what to do with himself, how to carry this shit for the rest of his life.

“Never been afraid of ugly, Kev,” Dean says remarkably patiently. “Tell me about him.”

…Kevin does.

It’s a choppy story; Kevin keeps interrupting himself trying to veer away from the gore in his memories. Dean doesn’t make him stop when he gets caught up in it anyway, struggles to find the words to talk about the bits and pieces of people he had to see, sometimes figuratively, usually literally, the way some of them laughed to keep from falling apart themselves, _Sammy ain’t gonna want you back in a box_. He cries himself out before he gets to the bit where he was on his knees back in the States and back in the right time period. By that point, he’s just—empty. Like whatever broke when Dean said Hollywood’s name left him leaking until there’s nothing left but a vague headache and a t-shirt damp with snot and tears.

“ _Jesus_ , kid…” Dean mutters, when it’s clear he’s run out of things to say, or at least that’s what Kevin guesses he says.

“You’re mumbling,” Kevin says flatly. He’s got his finger in his ear absently, staring vacantly at the picture of all of them. The last survivor.

There’s a simultaneous twist of guilt and resolution and _weariness_ in his chest at the thought. He should’ve died with them, he didn’t, he better damn well make good of the time fate shoved back into his hands. He’s tired and didn’t ask for this, but story of his life, right?

“Kev, you don’t have to—to _contain_ all that shit, okay?” Dean says, louder this time. “I know I’m not exactly the poster boy for great mental health here, but if keeping that shit inside is gonna kill you, you _gotta_ find somewhere else to put it, man.”

_You gotta stop, pal,_ Hollywood said and Kevin is hearing it again, clear as if they were sitting side-by-side again, on clean tile instead of soggy ground.

Kevin doesn’t start crying again, just leans his head back against his desk, rubs his aching eyes. “I know.”

“Sam and I aren’t afraid of ugly,” Dean reiterates. “It’s the _one_ thing we’re pretty damn familiar with. If you just want to spill your guts, we’ll take that. Hell, you and I can have a screaming match later if it’ll make you feel…” He waffles, shakes his head, “less like this.”

_Better_ is a tiny little step, it’s not over the hill of _Good_ , but Kevin will take getting up off the floor at this rate. Even that feels like a long way to go, but…

“We got you,” Dean continues, and Kevin can’t look him in the face, but at least looks in that direction. “It sucks, I hear you. It _really_ fucking sucks, but we’re family, Kev, ain’t no war or ghosts or anything else gonna change that.”

Kevin’s face spasms. “Don’t get me worked up again, man, _fuck_ ,” he gasps, only jumps a little when Dean squeezes his arm.

“I mean it, Kev. We’ll be here all through the ugly,” Dean says, then pats his shoulder. “Speaking of which, go blow your nose on that shirt and ditch it. I’ll get you a water or something,” he sighs as he stands. “Sam’s probably making rabbit food for dinner if you can stomach the shit.”

The laugh that bubbles out of Kevin then is a fragile little thing, but it’s a laugh. He hadn’t really realized it’s been…months, really, since he properly laughed at anything.

“It’s no worse than anything else,” Kevin admits tiredly, wiping his nose on his shoulder. No better, but no worse. “No point in getting constipated on top of…” he motions at his head, the air around him to encompass his whole life.

Dean looks like Kevin just suggested he actively eat shit which makes Kevin laugh again. He gets a headrush when he finally manages to get to his feet, but Dean stands there until the spots clear from his vision.

“Thanks. Thank you,” Kevin remembers to say, but Dean doesn’t make a big production of nodding, patting his shoulder again before he leaves him to it.

Generally, Kevin only looks in the mirror when he’s really out of his head and trying to…make himself upset or make sure his face still looks right, it’s really a tossup. Usually, he glances past it if he can help it. It feels like a weird since of victory when he just looks up long enough after he washes his face and finds a clean shirt to make sure he’s not snotty before he leaves the bathroom.

Sam looks up when he comes in the kitchen and it stings for a second, because Sam’s always got words in his mouth and Kevin has been shutting them down. They were close, they were getting _closer_ before all this, but Kevin still feels a little like he’s a box full of old pieces of himself. He doesn’t know how to let Sam have that. He also doesn’t know how to _not_ let Sam have that when he’s looking at Kevin like a puppy.

Kevin sniffs, but doesn’t really put in the effort to look like he’s not a complete mess. “Are turkey burgers some kind of weird middle ground between gut rot and salad?”

It earns him a soft laugh, the slight relaxing of Sam’s shoulders. “Not to Dean, but he hasn’t had a vegetable I haven’t snuck in his food in years,” he allows. “Think you can take one?”

Kevin’s stomach is still on a teetertotter, but he thinks he can keep at least half a burger down. He hadn’t noticed the hunger under the fucking—everything else. “Sure,” he says, sitting at the table, rubbing his face again. “…Thank you, Sam.”

The words fall out a little more weighted than a burger could justify and Sam stills for a moment. Kevin doesn’t look up, doesn’t hear him coming, but knows he’s going to be there a second before his weight is against his back, his arm around his chest. There are equal parts of Kevin that want to pull away and turn into Sam’s chest and leave approximately never, but he settles into the middle ground of letting Sam press his cheek to the top of his head briefly. “Any time, Kev,” he says towards his good side, before he pulls away to go back to the stove.

Kevin doesn’t cry again tonight.

It feels a little pathetic to be counting wins like that, but…

Today, Kevin let himself cry and feel, he spoke to his big brother; he laughed today. He got a hug and it was more than just tolerable. He eats an entire burger (and keeps it down) and doesn’t drink himself to sleep. Kevin doesn’t cry again tonight.

That’s not enough to be good, but— _Kevin has a picture of Hollywood and the 118 th, can roll over and look at him, whole and not dying and—_it’s enough to be better.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading…every little win counts, celebrate them


End file.
